


Untitled

by lanthano (epilanthanomai)



Category: 28 Days Later (2002)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:52:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilanthanomai/pseuds/lanthano
Summary: For the Military Wank Ficathon.





	Untitled

This was not the life West had been led to expect. It wasn't what he'd gotten used to, and it certainly wasn't the life he'd conned himself into believing he had. In the service it wasn't the quality of the lie that mattered, but the authority with which it was told. In the service there had always been many stronger men to lie for him. The chain of command may be short now, but for all he'd been a crap commander before, he was the only one the men had, and he'd learned rather quickly what they were like without someone to please. Animals, all of them.

When he'd first gathered them together, Bristow was coming off drugs—too weak to fight and too much of a bastard for the others to protect him—Cavendish was whimpering every night, Farrell had developed a fixation on digging a bunker. Narayan was bloodthirsty; McGregor was looting. They were all of them a mess, and he'd not been much better. West had been on leave when it started, on the third day of a seven-day drunk, and he'd not left his hotel room for anything but more gin and more ice. It was in one of those rare hours between staggering drunk and staggering sober and he'd gone outside and as bad as he was he could still tell something was wrong. Everything was wrong. He'd gone back to base and it'd been a nightmare, but he needed a weapon. He fought his way through more men than he'd thought the base could hold, a stranger switching from safe to target in seconds, no allies, no security. He'd filled a pack and fled. He would run on and on till his chest ached and then he'd hide and he'd never been certain, really, that some of the men he killed were sick. He hadn't waited to check, in those early days. He hadn't felt better in uniform, either, and that had been the second betrayal.

They'd taken short trips out from the garrison, looking for something easier to defend, and when they saw the house, they all knew it was the place. It had been the first order he gave with pleasure, and they'd fanned out, some taking up a perimeter and peering nervously into the forest, others clearing rooms and taking down any infected they saw. There were a lot of corpses, but few infected fighting back, and for the first time something in him relaxed. They shifted their gear in three trips and he stayed in the house the whole time, greeting his men as they arrived.

He ordered the men to excavate in the basement—for something useful, boys, and don't touch the liquor—and go up from there while he went exploring in the upper floors. Every now and then a sound floated up to him, sound playing tricks in the corridors and corners of the old building. The men were relaxing, too, tussling and crashing around and generally destroying anything of value. West wandered through the study into the library, from one bedroom to the next, a guest bath, another bath, the nursery. Away from the men, he could slouch through the rooms, completely directionless. He could drop into an overstuffed armchair and be completely unobserved. It was with the utmost displeasure that he heard footsteps approaching, and as he opened his eyes the displeasure distilled into dislike. It was Mailer, and as always, there was something familiar about him. Familiar but unplaceable. He watched Mailer warily.

Mailer sprawled in the armchair next to his, both of them facing an empty fireplace. Mailer cocked his head, looking at West sideways. He said, You don't remember me, do you?

West didn't, and then he did, and then it all came together and fell apart again. He'd known Mailer back at the base, and Mailer had known him. Mailer could ruin him. Mailer would ruin him. Mailer would destroy him and then all of his men would die. Mailer was his old life, Mailer had known him before. Mailer knew him. West was reeling and Mailer could tell, could read him. West had become transparent. Mailer left West, then, rejoining the men, and though he didn't say anything to them, it was always there on the tip of his tongue, a voluptuous potential to spill. A temptation.

Mailer was his old life, Mailer had known him before. Mailer knew him. It was inappropriate for there to be intimacy between a man and his commanding officer, but it was there, in the sly glances Mailer gave him, in grins and smirks and glib remarks. West loathed him. West knew that he would always be weak because of Mailer, his left flank bare, his defenses penetrated. Mailer made himself a favorite of the men, and West found it in himself to lie with authority.

Life was passing strange in this world after the end of the world, and though they had a routine, time malingered. His hours on watch weighed but lightly—it was the hours afterward, when the men would watch him endlessly, always aware. It wore on him. He grew weary. He was careless.

Mailer cornered him in the master bedroom. The men were on a recon for more ammunition. Mailer had claimed a stomach ailment and it'd been easy enough to believe, the way they were eating. Everyone had been sick at some time or other. West had known he wasn't sick, and had spent the day moving from room to room, avoiding the confrontation. Anxious for the confrontation. He couldn't wait any longer. Mailer came into the master bedroom and shut the door behind him. West was noticing everything—the rich red of the walls, the monstrous bed, big enough to swallow a man for days, the mahogany armoires, gilt mirror, red everywhere, in pillows and dusty sheets, the soft comforter. Mailer standing there, not saying anything, just looking. Desiring. Desiring West and it had been so long since West had felt desire, even when he was killing the infected daily, twice daily, living off adrenaline and pain and his cock rock hard and he hadn't felt desire. He desired Mailer.

Mailer didn't try to kiss him. He just moved closer and closer until they were touching and every time West breathed he felt Mailer's hard body pressing against his. Two soldier's bodies. He pressed against Mailer, the relief of being touched tightening in his throat, not even breathing. He unfastened Mailer's trousers and reached inside, tried to shut out the sound of Mailer groaning and let himself remember what it was to touch. He let himself breathe. He let himself groan when Mailer grasped him. He remembered.

He tipped his head back, pressing it against the door frame, staring blindly up, seeing and unseeing, cracks in the ceiling, wide aching white ceiling, water damage, generations of wear and white ceiling, painted and plastered and painted. White. Repainted. His eyes rolling up, iron muscles, rolling hips, fists, eyes fluttering: finished. Diminished. He stared at the ceiling, stalling. Mailer.

If it had been anyone else—and it wouldn't have been, but if it had—he would have known what to do. It was Mailer, and it was beyond bearing. West tensed, dreading speech, delayed reaction trembling through his knees, feeling weak. He told Mailer, You're to say nothing of this. Mailer wiped his hands on West's shirt and fastened his trousers. Mailer did up his own trousers and left the room and West trembled then, that he hadn't answered. This could not go on.

It goes on. West paces through the house, making the men anxious with his unrest. He paces for a week, comes to a decision, and paces for another day, clarifying his plan. He is accountable to no one, and to everyone. He arranges for it all—a certain group to stand watch that night, a particular assignment beforehand that would guarantee fatigue, some modifications to Mailer's rifle. No good soldier would leave his weapon unsupervised. Mailer isn't a good soldier. West isn't a good soldier, either, but he's learning. He's becoming the commander they need him to be.

Mailer's gun jams minutes into the battle. When he falls, the others gun down the infected crawling all over him. West watches from inside while they shoot him, too, and in the melee he can't be sure whose shot it was. During cleanup, Cavendish turns the body over and falls all over himself backing away. The bullet had just grazed Mailer, stunning him but leaving him alive.

The men freeze up. Not one of them volunteers to take care of it. West orders Farrell to chain him. They don't want him to wake up while the men are around. They file inside, more subdued than he's seen them in weeks. They haven't lost a man in weeks, and they'd almost forgotten how it is to watch a friend become an enemy, a swift mutation, a transformation so quick it's numbing. It's only after that they feel the pain, and then it's a night mourning and neutral the next morning. These are soldiers. They don't look at Mailer lying on the ground. Farrell secures the chain and ducks inside with a quiet, "Sir," and West is alone with him. With it. The animal that was Mailer. A man once, but even so he never knew his first name.

West waits. He can hear the men moving through the rooms nearest him. They won't interrupt but they don't want to leave him alone, either. They're good men. West waits, and, as the day breaks, he sees him start to move. He stands just out of reach, and sees no recognition in Mailer's eyes. They're mad eyes, just like all the others'.


End file.
